


The Community

by badfictionwriter70



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-11
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:15:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23105341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badfictionwriter70/pseuds/badfictionwriter70
Summary: A self-sustaining community led by a motley crew of loners deals with the aftermath of the zombie apocalypse.
Kudos: 4





	The Community

His breathing was heavy and labored. Bloody, rotted fingers clawed at the windshield. There were too many of them, he thought. He could never out run them all. He closed his eyes, but the snarling and clawing wouldn’t go away and behind his eyes all he could see was the dead swarming his friend. He had been a few steps ahead of her. He should have stopped. He shouldn’t have let go of her hand.

Two of the dead had grasped her shoulders with outstretched bony fingers, digging into her flesh, tearing and ripping it. He stopped and turned when he heard her scream. He was horrified to see that she was much further behind him than he once thought. Even more horrified to watch the dead, now upwards of 10 of them, swarm her, pulling her down, ripping at her flesh. Her pained face crying in agony knowing that she was now dead herself.  
Got to save her, he thought, but his body remained in one place. Why wouldn’t he move? Right then, she gained her composure, looked him straight in the eye and mouthed, “RUN!” That time, his feet did not hesitate. He turned on his heels and ran straight towards the car they had left parked at the edge of the empty lot while they scavenged for supplies.

When he had reached the car, he ripped open the driver’s door, got inside and locked himself in. He searched his pockets for the keys, not finding them. “Where the fuck are they?”, he thought frantically. He looked all over the inside of the car and when the swarm of dead finally reached the car he realized she was the one who had them. She had driven this time.

He sat back heavily and sighed, “Fuck.” He was a dead man.

A few hours later, he was still sitting there, the sun beating down on the car and the dead surrounding it. His mind felt fuzzy and confused, his movements slow and sloppy, like he was moving through thick syrup. His lips were dry and parched. His throat felt like it had sand in it every time he swallowed. God he would given anything for even a drop of water right now. He was soaked in sweat, dehydrating. Wouldn’t be long before he would go into full on heat stroke. 

He started drifting in and out of consciousness when he thought he heard a thud and “squeeeee…” as one of the dead next to the driver’s door fell against it and then slid down, not to be seen again. His vision continued to fade in an out as he desperately tried to stay focused and present. Another thud and “squeeee…” Maybe there was a God and heaven and the dead were being removed from his path so he could be taken. No, that was ridiculous he thought.

Slowly, one by one, the dead fell. He could see a silhouette coming towards him, but his eyes failed to register the full shape. He saw vague colors of mahogany and Navy blue. He watched the silhouette move closer to the car. “What was this?”, he thought. Couldn’t focus.  
Panic suddenly started to rise in him and he tried to reach for the door handle and locks, but his arm was too heavy, felt like it had a 100 lb weight tied to it. Before he knew it, the driver’s door flew open and he was face-to-face with…an angel? He wondered.

“Hey,” her voice was soothing and measured, “Have you been bit? Are you sick?”

His breathing was labored, but he managed to get out, “No,” to both questions. But wait, sick, yes, he was sick. He felt like death was just waiting to snatch him as soon as he left that car.

His willed his focus to come back, but it was still blurry. His fucking glasses, he thought, that’s why he couldn’t see well. He could make out by the tone of her voice he was talking to a woman. She had a Navy blue zip-up hoodie on and he could see her mahogany colored braids peaking out from the hood of the hoodie. She slowly pulled the white and Navy plaid scarf wrapped around her face down from her mouth. She had smooth, porcelain skin. He thought she was in her 30’s easily. Little did he realize she was a year or two older than his 44 years.

An angel he thought. Aren’t they supposed to have smooth, porcelain skin? His head started to loll to the side and his vision fading to black.

“Hey,” she snapped her fingers in front of his nose, “Stay with me, okay?” 

His head rolled back to her gaze. “We need to get you out of here.”

That is when things got murky for him. He wasn’t sure how, but the next thing he knew, he was waking up to a plain white ceiling. He was flat on his back, but aware that there was a soft quality to whatever he was lying on and something plush cradled his head and neck. He blinked a few times to focus, his vision still blurry.

“Hey,” he heard the voice of the female again, this time her tone was very soothing. He glanced to his left to see her sitting next to him in a chair.  
“I found these in the car,” she said as she held up a pair of black-framed glasses, “I figured they might be yours?”  
He licked his parched, dry lips and managed to eek out a, “Yeah.” He barely recognized his own husky voice. It was deeper and much more raspy than normal. 

She flipped the bows of the glasses open and put them over his eyes. Instantly, everything became crisp again. He could see her face, her warm smile and dark green eyes that reminded him of Balsam firs. Her hood was now off and he could see her disheveled red bangs hanging nearly in her eyes. 

“Water?”, he asked.

She smiled, “I’ll do you one better.” She reached towards the bedside table and cracked open an bottle of orange colored liquid and poured some into a white plastic cup. When she put the bottle down, he recognized the label.

“Pedialyte,” he half laughed.

“Yep,” she said, “You are pretty dehydrated and we are treating you as if you have heat exhaustion. How long were you in that hot car?”

He shrugged, “We?”

“Well, really me, right now,” she continued as she helped him lift his head up enough to take a sip from the glass, “Easy with this. Take it slow.”

He took a small sip of the orange liquid. It tasted like berries. “You a doctor?” he asked, his voice making a move closer to being its normal low, husky tone.

“Hell no,” she chuckled, “One of the guys here in the community is a field medic. He isn’t here now, but he has been teaching me and a few others what he knows in case…”, her voice trailed off and she looked away. She signed and quickly returned her gaze to his with a smile, trying not to alarm him. 

“In case what?” he asked, taking another small sip of the electrolyte replacement drink.

“In case we need skilled people,” she replied, but he knew what she was getting at. If he died. They would need someone else to be a medic if he died.  
It was then he realized there was an IV bag handing from a metal stand between the night stand and his head. “Was he in a hospital?”, he wondered. No, he didn’t think so based on what he could see as he looked around the room. The room was painted a faint blue and he could see 2 folding closet doors.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“You are in a gated community called Bear Creek,” she explained.

That name rung a bell vaguely. It wasn’t too far from where they had parked the car to scavenge for supplies. Supposed to be a self-sustaining community or something like that.

She went on to explain further, “This is what the National Guard is calling and infect free zone. Which is complete bullshit because it’s not an infection at all.”

That caught his attention and he looked at her in surprise. “What do you mean?”, he asked.

“They are saying this is an infection, when in fact, no one really knows what the fuck it is,” she stopped, smiled bashfully, “Sorry, I have a tendency to swear a lot.” 

He just shook his head and pursed his lips to acknowledge that it didn’t both him in the least. People who swear more than most are more truthful in his experience. He could sense too, that she wasn’t bullshitting him. Who was this woman and what did she know? She seemed smarter than most. More calm as she talked, almost in a matter of fact manner.

“This,” she gestured to the world as a whole, “what is going on out there. It’s not an infection. It’s not a virus or a bacteria or a parasite. The CDC, WHO, they don’t know what it is. Shit, it could be space spore for all they know.”

“Space spore?” he questioned.

“Yeah,” she smiled a bit sarcastically, “George Romero’s Night of the Living Dead?”

She waited for a hint of recognition before saying, “PLEASE tell me you saw Romero’s Night of the Living Dead. It’s a fucking classic!”

A smile broke across his face and a laugh escaped his lips. “Are you kidding me?” he said, “Love that movie. It’s really the birth place of the zombie film genre.”

“Exactly!”, she slapped her knee.

He thought for a moment, pursed his lips, and said in a low, almost whisper, “It was a space spore in that flick.”

“Yep,” she replied.

“But I don’t get what you mean though,” he continued, looking back at her, “If we get bit, we get infected, we die and then…”, he trailed off.

She shook her head, “Not that simple. You die, you re-animate.”

He looked at her quizzically and she continued, “Yes, you get bit, you get sick, die, re-animate, BUT you could die of natural causes, a heart attack, stroke, you could get shot and die, you could die in a car crash…you would still…re-animate.”

Her words overwhelmed him. What was she saying? They were all infected? But it wasn’t an infection, was it in their genes? 

She placed a cool, soft hand on his left biceps, “Hey,” she said soothingly, “I know that is a lot to absorb. You have had a one hell of a day.”

He looked at her, down at his empty cup, and nodded. She took the cup from him, refilled it, and set it on the night table next to him.  
Standing up from the chair, she said, “I’m going to let you get some rest. You are still a little dehydrated, but that,” pointing to the IV bag, “will help.”

She smiled, “If you need anything just yell.”

She turned to leave the room and he called after her, “What’s your name?”

She turned back to him, a bit embarrassed that she had not told him who she was, “Sorry about that.” She stepped back to his side, “I’m Lexa, but I go by Lex.”

He tried to reach his right hand up to offer a hand shake, but it was still listless and heavy. She seemed to understand what he was trying for and gently took his left hand in hers. “I’m Pedro.”

She gave him hand a light squeeze, “Nice to meet you Pedro. Now, get some rest. I’ll get you up to speed when you are in a little better shape.”

He nodded and a faint smile broke across his lips. His coffee brown eyes were starting to fade as the heaviness of sleep started to take him into slumber. She gently took the black glasses off his face, folded them up and put them on the night stand next to the bed. He was in a real bed, he thought. It had been too many weeks since he knew the feeling of a real bed. How nice, and he was grateful that he was alive and had fallen into the hands of a kind, caring woman. These thoughts lulled him into a heavy, deep sleep as his body gave in to its natural healing process.


End file.
